


This, Our Night

by KickingRoses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KickingRoses/pseuds/KickingRoses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during The Riechenbach Fall. Sherlock doesn't want to be alone tonight. As always, he has John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This, Our Night

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic posted on here so getting the hang of this site still. This was inspired by a prompt posted on the Sherlock kink meme on LJ. It takes place before John receives the phone call about Mrs. Hudson. Hint of possible slash between Sherlock and John if you want to see it though for me they are just the best friends who are in love with each other. Hope you enjoy.

  
  
"There must have been something else he touched other than an apple," John mused aloud, on his thirteenth pace around the table, "Maybe he had the code written down and dropped it somewhere when you weren't looking? Or what about if he put it on something in the hall before he came into the flat where he'd think it would be brought upstairs?"  
  
John looked to his flatmate who had returned to sitting on the floor against one of the lab tables. He was still fiddling with that little ball, no longer throwing it and instead merely rotating it on his palm as his eyes remained fixed ahead in deep, unwavering thought.  
  
"Or maybe he hired some magical elves to sneak in and leave it there after he'd gone." continued John with a wry smirk.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"That's the first sound you've made in," John checked his watch, "Twenty minutes. Though for you that's the equivalent of a two second pause so I'll count my blessings."  
  
"What is the time?" asked Sherlock, his eyes remaining focused on the spot in front of him.  
  
"Half four." John groaned, rubbing his tired face. Somehow acknowledging just how late it was made him self-aware of his own exhaustion. He blinked; "Wait, why are you asking me the time? You always know what time it is, you've got a clock for every time zone in that head of yours."  
  
Sherlock didn't reply. John noticed a strange twitch in his cheeks, as if he wanted to say something but had to stifle himself, resuming his silence it seemed.  
  
"Look, you don't mind if I just sleep for a bit, do you? I'm shattered." John asked through an aptly timed yawn.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"...Sorry?"  
  
"Yes, I do mind. I'd like it very much if you could stay awake." said Sherlock so very matter-of-factly.  
  
John stared at him; "Sherlock, what good is me being overtired going to do? You were the one in the flat when Moriarty came around so you're the only one who could know what he possibly left there. I'd tell you to get some rest as well but I know that's a lost cause, you're deep enough in that palace of yours not to even hear what I'm saying so what's the point?"  
  
"The point is that I'm asking you to do me just one favour, as my friend, and stay awake." he replied, tersely.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because, I..." his face clenched, the next words clearly a struggle to release; "I'd rather not be alone right now. Please, John. Stay with me for a few more minutes."  
  
John regarded his friend sat on the floor, legs pulled up to his chest and pale eyes gazing up at him. He'd seen those eyes once before. At the pool, when John had stepped out with the bomb vest hidden beneath his coat, when Sherlock had thought for a second that it was John who was his nemesis. That their entire friendship up to that point had been a lie. The look of a 'lost, little child' was how he'd explained it on his blog. The metaphor seemed twice as befitting now.  
  
He wasn't quite sure what to say to Sherlock's surprisingly vulnerable request. There was a slight chill down his spine as his expression began to remind John of patients waiting to hear the results of cancer tests.  
  
"Sherlock," he shook the image out of his mind, "What is wrong? Is it because of what happened at Kitty Riley's? Don't tell me that's what's bothering you. As if anyone believes what's printed in the Sun anyway."  
  
"Scotland Yard seems pretty keen to believe it."  
  
"Yeah, well you didn't exactly make the situation any better with the whole escaping-while-taking-a-hostage-at-gunpoint act." John reasoned, trying to keep the atmosphere light.  
  
Sherlock's lips twitched; "I could say I was under a bad influence from the man who broke the chief's nose."  
  
John allowed himself a laugh, leaning back against the table; "Maybe they'll all think twice about badmouthing you while I'm around. I'll make sure the whole of England has an epidemic of broken noses if they all choose to believe that rubbish."  
  
It was then that Sherlock smiled in a way that John had never seen him do before. Something about his eyes seemed in conflict the genuine grin on his face. A sort of revelation in them. A sad revelation. Only for a fleeting moment before his visage returned to its usual stoic gaze.  
  
"Sherlock," he began, tentatively, "I know there's something else. Something bigger than the tabloids and the police. Would you just tell me so I can help you?"  
  
He didn't. Again, it was if John hadn't even spoken.  
  
"Fine," John huffed, knowing there was no use beating a dead horse, "Keep your secrets. I don't know why I bother at this point really."  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes; "I'm afraid, John."  
  
Just as John was about to perch himself on a chair to rest his head, he froze at those words which caught him in a vice. It was only the second time he'd heard them. The first had been enough of a shock. That night in the bar, in Dartmoor, where he'd been witness to the great Sherlock Holmes having a full on panic attack. Of course it had all ended up being the result of a drug and therefore not worth worrying about in hindsight.  
  
Except now he wasn't drugged. Okay, John couldn't be certain of that, but his friend's body language was in complete contrast to how it had been that night in the bar. He wasn't shaking or hyperventilating. His eyes, though unbearably sad, were dry while his hands were steady though pale as ever. He seemed to be in complete control. And somehow this filled John with more worry than ever.  
  
John sighed, putting the chair back in; "What do you want me to do, Sherlock?"  
  
The detective took a moment to respond; "Sit with me."  
  
Without further question, John crossed the short distance between the two tables and joined Sherlock on the floor, at his side. The pair exchanged smiles of gratitude - Sherlock thankful for John's company, John thankful for Sherlock not pushing him away for once.  
  
"Do you know where we are?" asked Sherlock.  
  
John frowned; "A lab, St. Barts Hospital, Smithfield, London, England - how specific do you want me to be on this?"  
  
"This is where we met, John. This hospital." Sherlock stated, with a possible trace of hurt that that had not been John's immediate answer; "29th of January, 2010. I was clearing up after doing some work. You and Stamford walked through the door and you said; _Bit different from my day_. I asked Stamford if I could borrow his phone and you said _Here, use mine_. I said _thank you_ and then Stamford told me your name... _John Watson_."  
  
From the rather intense way Sherlock recited the event, John got the impression that he was reliving the moment in his head in picture perfect detail. As if he had his own built in video camera to record any moment to re-watch over and over if he pleased.  
  
"Wow. I wouldn't have thought you to keep something like that cluttering up your mental hard drive." John quipped.  
  
"I only delete data that's insignificant to me."  
  
John felt as if he'd been punched in the chest by the full weight of those words, their heartfelt meaning easily filtered through the robotic delivery of the man beside him. He looked at his friend and saw that not even Sherlock had been able to continue keeping a hold of that mask after letting such blatant 'Holmesian' sentiment seep through.  
  
Sherlock was hugging his knees to his chest now. His eyes were closed and his mouth pressed to his kneecaps. The image broke John's heart to point that he was almost tempted to allow him a cigarette if he'd been able to find one.  
  
He released a breath that not even John had noticed he was holding; "Can I ask one more favour of you?"  
  
"You know you can."  
  
"Put your arms around me."  
  
John blinked. He definitely wasn't expecting that; "...Why?"  
  
"Why do you think? I want a...a..." he genuinely seemed to struggle to find the word; "Those things people do when one or both of them are sad. What mothers give to children to stop them being upset."  
  
"They're called cuddles, Sherlock." John couldn't resist feeling a tad amused at how his companion flinched at the word; "And, as far as I'm aware, I'm not your mother. Also despite how much of a irritable brat you can be, you're not a child."  
  
He didn't mean to sound cold. It was the soldier in him talking. The years of training in how to keep his nerves of steel and a stiff upper lip no matter what the situation. A discipline he was certain his flatmate already had pre-installed.  
  
Then Sherlock made that face. His eyes dropped, looking away from John, his lips parted in a defeated sigh. THAT face. The same one he'd pulled when he'd made coffee for John that first time only for John to tell him he'd made it wrong. The face that made John feel like he'd kicked a puppy after it had brought him his slippers only to accidentally ruin one in the process. Except now it felt twice as raw, possibly because he wasn't merely manipulating John in order to dose him this time. He really was scared. Lost.  
  
“Oh come here,” John sighed, melting.  
  
He shifted closer and carefully slid one arm behind Sherlock's head and around his shoulders. His other moved around his friend's torso and he gently pulled him close. John had to bite his lip to stop himself chastising him. Sherlock may have been taller but, in his arms, he felt _tiny_. It was like he was cradling a loose bag of bones and skin. He dreaded to think how long it had been since Sherlock last ate some food. The concern made him hold his friend all the more tighter. A wave of homesickness began to hit him as he wished more than anything that they were back in 221B, where he could wrap Sherlock in a blanket and let him curl up in a chair next to the fireplace while John cooked him some soup. And a warning sent out to anyone who thought to dare disturb their peace, their home, ever again.  
  
Sherlock took a few seconds to relax, his body instinctively rigid, uncertain at first how to respond to this level of human contact. He exhaled and rested his head on the doctor's shoulder, his hands sneaking around John's middle and hooking themselves to the fabric of his jumper. Another jolt hit John's heart at how desperately his friend needed this comfort. He found one of Sherlock's hands, detached his grip and linked their fingers together tight.  
  
“Still worried people might talk?” murmured Sherlock.  
  
“I'd rather they did that than talk about whether you're a fake or not. I don't feel quite as much need to punch anyone who talks about this instead.”  
  
He felt Sherlock smile against him. John ran his fingers through his ebony curls while letting his own cheek rest against the other man's forehead. If only his mind could somehow link to Sherlock's. If only he could see what was reducing his fearless flatmate to such a fragile state. If only he knew how to help the stubborn git. If only there was some way to keep him there, held safe in John's arms, until the storm was over.  
  
John did try to stay awake. Honest. He didn't want to leave Sherlock on his own, not until he'd fallen asleep first which he knew wasn't likely to happen. His eyelids were so heavy. He had to rest them, just for a moment, Sherlock's thick black hair so soft against his face.  
  
In his dreams; there were hordes of red eyed, black demons pounding against the lab door. They were screaming for Sherlock. Screaming for his blood. And Sherlock was crying, his fingers clinging onto John's clothes and begging him not to let them take him. John took his hand and pulled him to the door, with Sherlock horrified at believing he was going to hand him over to their ravenous claws. But John never let go of him. He opened the door and an entire force of hellish beings with skin like charcoal and twisted smiles swarmed in on them. Ten thousand monsters. One rather short, invalided army doctor wanting to protect his best friend at all costs. They didn't stand a chance.  
  
The demons retreated in terror. John wiped the black blood from his hands. He took hold of his friend and led him safely back home.  
  
Everything was fine. Just _fine_.  
  
 **~*~**  
  
Sherlock felt the human cushion he was curled up against slouch suddenly. The hand holding his went limp as did the one caressing his hair. And still, even after John Watson finally passed out, his arms kept to their positions around Sherlock. He listened to the doctor's breathing even out. As Sherlock held his hand, his fingers moved lightly against John's wrist, feeling his pulse which had been racing with worry over the past few minutes finally begin to decrease.  
  
If someone had told Sherlock the day before that he'd be asking another grown man for a 'cuddle', he would've kicked them in the shins. He accepted that it was weak of him. That he was a fool for letting those damn feelings get the better of him, especially with no outside influence to blame this time. But he didn't care. Because he knew full well what was to happen. He knew that, whatever happened, this was their last night together. Sherlock knew it hadn't been truly necessary for John to be here, it wasn't as if he could provide any real productive aid for his confrontation with Moriarty. Never the less, he wanted John to be here.  
  
He _needed_ John to be here. With him. At journey's end.  
  
Sherlock allowed himself to steal a few last moments buried in John's warmth. He attempted to store every last second of this experience in his head just as he'd done with the moment the two of them had met. Just as he did with every moment where being with John made his life feel like more than transport with the odd puzzle in between.  
  
 _John calling him amazing for the first time. Brilliant. Incredible. Fantastic.  
  
John shooting a man dead to save Sherlock's life.  
  
John making breakfast on their first morning together in Baker Street.  
  
John convincing Sherlock to watch his first James Bond film with him.  
  
John tackling Moriarty, ready to die with him to give Sherlock a chance to run.  
  
John putting him to bed after The Woman had doped him.  
  
John cancelling his dates to spend Christmas and New Years with him.  
  
John helping him through his nicotine withdrawal.  
  
John still remaining his only friend despite the sugar incident.  
  
John protecting him from the bloodthirsty crowds of press.  
  
John willingly getting himself arrested to stay by Sherlock's side.  
  
John indulging him this one, silly, sentimental request, even in his sleep.  
  
John never losing faith in him. Forever there. Forever loyal. His John Watson._  
  
The detective had to force himself out of the smothering collage of memories. The odd taste in his mouth told him he must have fallen asleep for a few minutes or at least something close. He'd felt all too comfortable amongst those precious moments combined with John's soothing embrace. Was it any wonder these things were used as a the perfect cures for bawling children?  
  
Then again, thought Sherlock, it was in this moment that he felt more like crying than ever before.  
  
But he couldn't allow himself such luxuries. What good would crying do to help him to never have to leave John's side? To never have to leave him..  
  
Sherlock carefully looked at the time on John's watch, just to make sure it wasn't slow of course. Half five. Maybe he had fallen asleep for longer than he'd thought. Or maybe they'd both just let the hour slip away without a care.  
  
“Not long now,” he whispered to himself, grimly.  
  
What he had to do next was one of the most difficult and challenging tasks Sherlock had ever been faced with. He slowly sat up and let John's arms slide away from him to fall at his sides. It was as if all the heat and feeling of safety deserted him in that painful moment. In hindsight, he realised he'd only made this whole scenario harder for himself. Not that he regretted it. Not for one second.  
  
He sat there, staring at John's sleeping form propped up against the lab table. He looked so tired and so much older than he really was. Sherlock had done that to him. To the man who'd killed for him. Who'd been prepared to die for him. Who was ready to charge into battle with him whatever the odds.  
  
He put a hand to John's drooping head; “You are perfect, Dr. Watson.”  
  
And he kissed him.  
  
Just a small, fleeting and yet sweet kiss on the forehead. A gesture that needed no justification.  
  
John didn't wake. He didn't cringe or wince. But Sherlock caught one tiny, sleepy smile. Which gave him the added boost of courage he needed to carry on this vital task.  
  
Sherlock hooked his arms under John's and managed to lift him onto his feet. He placed the doctor on a chair and gently let his head fall slowly into his arms on the table. Just when he seemed as comfy as he could be sleeping in such a position, he stirred. Sherlock wondered if perhaps he realised how empty his arms suddenly were and if they felt as cold and lifeless as Sherlock did without them.  
  
He put a hand to John's head, lulling him back into a doze; “Shh. Rest now. You can't fight with me this time, I'm afraid.”  
  
John frowned in his sleep, most likely in disagreement. Yet he soon managed to settle despite his visible subconscious fretting.  
  
 _“I don't have friends. I've just got one.”_  
  
His own words echoed inside his skull. His one and only friend. And by the following evening, he wouldn't even have that left anymore.  
  
Sherlock dragged his feet to the other table, as far a distance from John as he could manage, to claim his own stool. He got out his phone and sent the necessary texts. After sending a vital update to Molly, he sent another to an acquaintance who'd also agreed to help him in his desperate scheme.  
  
 _Call him in an hour. Not a minute sooner. SH._  
  
He pocketed his phone and went back to toying with the grey rubber ball. One more hour. He owed John that at the very least. One more hour of rest before the world came crashing down in flames around the both of them. Even if they survived, they'd only to be lost among the wreckage, never to find each other in the dark again like they had all those many months before.  
  
Sherlock sighed, his voice cracking; “Forgive me, John.”  
  
The doctor remained silent and Sherlock was left alone. Waiting.


End file.
